Understanding Affection and Aversion
One afternoon, a meditation teacher gathered with a group of students in a quiet city park. The city’s hum was muted beneath the trees, and the late sun slanted across the benches and grass. The group had just finished a short walking meditation. Some sat cross-legged, others leaned against trees or sipped warm tea. The teacher, calm and observant, looked around at the group and spoke.
“Let me tell you a story,” she said. “Not about ancient monks or distant temples, but about feelings you know well—love, dislike, connection, irritation. And how they rise and fall like waves, often without our permission.”
She looked at one of the students. “Have you ever liked someone, and then liked them more because others liked them too?”
The student smiled and nodded.
“Exactly,” the teacher said. “Let’s call her Sarah.”
Sarah was a bright, generous woman working at a design firm in the city. She wasn’t loud or showy, but she had a quiet strength—always ready to help, always warm in her words. When you first met Sarah, you felt instantly drawn to her. She asked about your day and remembered small things—your favorite coffee, a story you told weeks ago. You felt seen.
Others noticed her too. Colleagues laughed with her during breaks. Supervisors asked her opinion. She was respected, admired, and warmly spoken of.
One day, you caught yourself thinking, “I’m glad others like her. It means I wasn’t wrong about her.” Your affection for her deepened. Her goodness felt confirmed. She became even more lovable because others affirmed your view.
“That,” the teacher said, “is affection born of affection.”
Then the teacher’s tone shifted slightly. “But what if something changes?”
A few weeks later, you overhear a different story. A group at work is whispering. One of them rolls their eyes and says, “Sarah only acts nice to get ahead.” Another shrugs, “Yeah, I don’t trust her smile. Too perfect.” You feel your stomach tighten. Your admiration for Sarah turns into something fierce, protective. You want to speak up, to defend her, maybe even avoid those colleagues who were cruel behind her back.
Your dislike for them grows—not because of anything they did to you, but because they insulted someone you cared about.
“That,” the teacher said gently, “is aversion born of affection.”
She let the silence settle before continuing.
“But the reverse can happen, too.”
Now picture Jake. Loud, opinionated, always late to meetings, always interrupting. You find yourself irritated whenever he speaks. You don’t understand why others tolerate him.
Then one day, something shifts. Jake tries to join a team lunch, but the others ignore him. Someone makes a passive-aggressive joke that clearly hurts him. He pretends not to notice, but you do. You see the flash of pain in his eyes before he covers it with a grin.
Something inside you softens. “Maybe I judged too quickly,” you think. You remember moments when you’ve felt left out. Without warning, your aversion begins to dissolve. Maybe he’s just awkward, not arrogant. Maybe he’s trying in his own way.
“That,” the teacher said, “is affection born of aversion.”
And then there’s the final path.
You already disliked Jake. And then the worst thing—he gets a promotion. You hear people praising his leadership and creativity. Your stomach churns. You feel confused, maybe even betrayed by their approval. “How can they not see what I see?” you wonder.
Your dislike deepens—not just for Jake, but for those who admire him. You avoid conversations where his name comes up. You roll your eyes when others speak well of him.
“That,” the teacher said, “is aversion born of aversion.”
She paused, letting the words settle into the group like dust into still air.
“These feelings—attraction, rejection, admiration, disgust—seem so real, so solid. But often, they’re just patterns. Ripples. Reactions triggered by who we think we are, or how we think things should be.”
The wind rustled lightly through the trees.
“When a meditator practices stillness,” she continued, “when they let go of chasing pleasure and fighting discomfort, the emotional storm starts to quiet. Affection and aversion stop rising like waves from every passing thought. The mind settles into clarity, into balance. In that silence, nothing needs to be liked or disliked. Things just are. And that is a very peaceful place to be.”
She set her cup down gently.
“But at the root of all this emotional pulling and pushing is a simple idea: ‘I am.’ ‘I am better.’ ‘I am worse.’ ‘I am good because others like me.’ ‘I am unworthy because they don’t.’ It’s a flame we carry without knowing. And because of it, we burn.”
The students listened quietly.
“When we believe deeply in this fixed identity, everything becomes personal. If someone praises another, it feels like a threat. If someone criticizes a friend, it feels like an attack on us. If someone doesn’t see things our way, we feel alone. But when we let go of that story—when we stop constantly needing to be someone—then something magical happens. The mind no longer pulls in or pushes away. It no longer smolders or flares up. It simply rests.”
She looked around the circle.
“Think of the mind like a fire. The more you feed it with ideas of ‘me,’ ‘mine,’ ‘not mine,’ ‘better than,’ ‘less than’—the hotter it burns. But if you stop feeding it, the fire slowly fades. And in its place is space. Stillness. Peace.”
The group sat in silence for a while. No one rushed to speak. A dog barked in the distance. A leaf landed on someone’s shoulder. The teacher smiled.
“This path isn’t about becoming indifferent,” she said. “It’s about becoming free.”
Link: https://wisdomtea.org/2025/05/22/understanding-affection-and-aversion/
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